by Paul Haven
But game seven was just eleven hours away, and he needed a stick of gum!
Diamond Bob was probably plotting ways to crush the Sluggers at that very minute.
“I'm going,” said Danny. “Right after school.”
“You've got to be out of your mind,” Molly whispered, grabbing Danny by the arm. “What if Mr. Sycamore knows you took the gum? He certainly has to know by now that you snuck into that study.”
Lucas grabbed Danny's other arm.
“You know in the movies when the criminal returns to the scene of the crime?” he said. “You ever notice how it doesn't work out too well for him?”
“This is different,” Danny said.
“Can you even comprehend what kind of trouble you're going to get into with your parents?” Lucas said. “This is like burn-the-house-down kind of trouble!”
“They don't have to know all the details,” Danny said. “Anyway, there's no sense us all getting into trouble. I'll go alone.”
“If I got caught again, Danny …” Lucas shook his head. “I'll be taking tuba lessons next.”
Molly looked at Danny with a mix of concern and curiosity.
“Let's just suppose you went,” she said after a minute. “How do you plan to get out to West Bubble anyway?”
“Yeah, are you going to take your bike on the freeway at night?” Lucas asked. “Even you couldn't be that crazy!”
Danny rubbed his hands together. He turned his gaze from one friend to the other.
“Er, that's where you guys come in,” he said slowly. “How much money have you got?”
Final Preparations
Danny was out of his seat at school the moment the last bell rang. He jogged all the way home, bounded up the stairs of his building, and made a beeline for his bedroom.
All told, he had seventeen dollars in allowance money stored away in an antique metal bank shaped like an old-time baseball player. Not bad, Danny thought, though his mind did race back to the gazillions Diamond Bob had offered him to root for the Tornadoes.
He was halfway out the door when the phone rang.
“Have I got news for you!” said Harold Gurkin when Danny picked up the phone. “We're all going to be in the mayor's box tonight—your mother, Max, and me! We'll be right behind you.”
“You will?” Danny said. His heart dropped.
“Yeah,” his father said. “We can cheer for you every time you pop out of the dugout! Isn't that great?”
Danny had figured with his parents watching the game at home, they might not notice his absence for four or five innings. Now he had to come up with an excuse in a hurry.
“The thing is, Dad, you might not see as much of me as you would imagine,” Danny said slowly, his fingers gripping the receiver nervously.
“What do you mean?” Harold said.
“I'll probably be in the clubhouse a lot. In fact, I might not be out on the field at all,” he said.
“Not on the field?” said Harold. “But you're the ball boy.”
Danny gulped.
“Right, that's true, but then there is the Curse of the Poisoned Pretzel to consider,” Danny said.
“What does that have to do with it?”
“Well, you see, a lot of the guys are afraid that with this being game seven, the ghost of Manchester Boddle-brooks might walk the clubhouse unless there are some good vibes there,” Danny said.
“Really? Gosh, that sounds serious,” his father laughed. “Just make sure no bubble-gum tycoon's ghost falls over on you! I guess we'll come and find you after the game, then. Go, Sluggers!”
“Sure thing!” Danny said. “See you later.”
Pretty good for a spur-of-the-moment story, Danny thought with relief. He ran out the front door, taking the stairs two at a time.
There wasn't a minute to spare.
Danny's first stop was Willie's stand. The hot-dog man was talking to some early customers, and they were all waving their hands in the air like baseball players frantically trying to spot a pop-up in the mist.
“What a game!” Willie said, shaking Danny by the shoulders. “It was like magic.”
“Unbelievable,” Danny agreed. “Best game ever, no doubt about it.”
“I can hardly take it again tonight,” Willie said. “I hope I have enough hot dogs.”
Danny bought six hot dogs with everything, both for good luck and in case he got hungry on the trip.
“Why aren't you buying dogs for the whole team?” Willie asked.
“Oh, ah, I've got something to do first,” Danny said. “Molly and Lucas will be over later to pick up the team dogs.”
Willie's assistant handed Danny his order, and he raced off toward the basketball courts at Quincy Park. It was 4:51, just two hours until the first pitch of the most important game of all time.
The park was just filling up with kids, and they were all talking about the game. Everywhere Danny looked, children were waving their hands in the air in mock confusion, then throwing themselves on the ground in slapstick imitations of Magnus Ruffian getting conked on the head.
Danny leaned against the fence and waited for Molly and Lucas to arrive. Finally, he heard the patter of footsteps.
“Hey, man,” Lucas said breathlessly, shoving a wad of bills and coins into Danny's hand. “Take it all. That's everything.”
“Great,” Danny said. “How much is here?”
“Four dollars and thirty-eight cents,” Lucas said, rubbing his nose.
“Four dollars!” Danny yelled. “And thirty-eight cents! That's it?”
“Sorry,” Lucas said. “I spent most of my money on hot dogs this year.”
“Oh, man!”
Danny needed more money. By the time Molly arrived, it was nearly five-thirty and Danny was beside himself. He had a lot to do before game time.
“My father told me this money was only to be used in a major emergency,” she said nervously, holding the bills tightly in her hand.
“Well, that sounds like what this is,” Danny said impatiently, grabbing the money and counting it quickly.
“Wow,” he said. “There's a hundred bucks here!”
“Yeah, I know,” said Molly, biting her bottom lip. “Danny, are you sure about this? I could come with you if you want.”
Danny thrust the bills into his pants pocket and grabbed the bag of hot dogs off the ground.
“No,” he said. “Anyway, you guys have to take care of everything else.”
Danny reached into his pocket and grabbed a note he had hurriedly scribbled during Mrs. Sherman's class while she was barking out a long explanation of the history of the stocks as a way to punish children in medieval Europe.
It was a wonder she hadn't discovered him.
The note said “MANAGER BIGGINS, READ THIS!” on the front, and inside it explained that Danny was on an important mission to fetch the oldest Sluggers fan in the world and there was no reason to panic. He was sending his friends in his place.
“The team car picks us up at six o'clock at Willie's stand, right?” Molly said.
“And it's fifty-six hot dogs?” Lucas asked.
“Yeah, with everything and extra onions,” said Danny. “Just ask Willie. They'll be on the house.”
Molly and Lucas nodded.
“Okay, then,” Danny said, tapping fists with each of them. “I'll see you after the game.”
You're Danny Gurkin!
Danny had never hailed a cab on his own before, and he wasn't sure how to do it. Would they even stop for a kid?
He stood on the corner of Splotnick Street in the waning afternoon sun and put his hand in the air.
Screech!
“That was easy,” Danny thought as he hopped into the back of the car.
“Where you goin', buddy?” asked the driver, pulling the taxi into heavy traffic without so much as a glance. There was a chorus of honks and curses as cars swerved to get out of the way.
“Uh, West Bubble, please,” Danny said politely, and was surpr
ised how quickly his body shot forward into the Plexiglas that separated him from the front seat when the cabbie slammed on the brakes.
“West Bubble?” said the driver, turning around. “That's got to be thirty miles from here! Do you have any idea how much that's going to cost, kid?”
Danny pulled the wad of bills out of his pocket and held it up to the glass. The taxi shot off down the street.
It wasn't until several minutes later, after the car had jolted to a stop at a traffic light, that the driver turned around again.
“Hey, you're that kid that does all the crazy stuff with the hot dogs!” said the cabbie. Danny noticed a plastic figurine glued to the dashboard that looked just like Sid Canova. “You're Danny Gurkin!”
Danny nodded.
“What're you going out to West Bubble for?” the taxi driver asked. “The game starts in ninety minutes!”
Danny didn't know what to say. He certainly wasn't going to tell the cabbie he was on a desperate quest for more magic gum!
“Official Sluggers business,” Danny said. “I'm not allowed to talk about it.”
“Wow!” said the driver as they shot across two lanes of traffic to barely make the turn onto the Harry Tinkleford Highway. “I thought you'd lost your touch there for a while, but you really came through last night. What a game, huh?”
The cabbie started waving his hands in the air to show he'd seen the final play. Danny hoped he was steering with his knees.
“Yep, it was,” Danny said, clutching the seat to keep his balance. He was starting to feel queasy. “It's a good thing I haven't eaten those hot dogs yet,” he thought.
“Seeing Ruffian out cold like that,” mused the cabbie, cutting off a Volkswagen and honking his horn. “That was beautiful! Am I right or what?”
“I'm sorry,” Danny said. “I'm a little preoccupied. How long is it going to take to get there?”
The driver looked back at Danny through the rearview mirror.
“Oh, I didn't realize you were in a hurry.” He smiled, pushing down on the accelerator and shooting into the fast lane. “I'll have you there in a jiffy.”
Taxi Ride
It was just getting dark by the time the taxi pulled into the gravel driveway at Manchester Boddlebrooks's West Bubble estate, and the moon was still low in the sky, giving the hedges that lined the road an eerie bluish glow.
“Are you sure this is where you're going?” the cab-driver said nervously.
“Yeah, this is it,” Danny said. He glanced at his watch. It was nearly six-thirty.
The gravel drive was just wide enough for the car to squeeze through, and the overgrown hedges brushed noisily against the roof and windows as the taxi rumbled past.
“This is going to cost you extra,” the driver said. “This car's a rental.”
Finally, the driveway opened up and the mansion came into view.
“Whoa!” said the cabbie. “What the heck is that?”
Danny looked up at the darkened mansion. The house was imposing in the daytime. In the early-evening gloom, it was downright medieval. The baseball-bat towers cast dark shadows on the front lawn, and the dozens of round baseball windows in the upper floors looked like hollow eyes. Danny wished he had taken Molly up on her offer to come with him.
The car pulled around to the enormous hot-dog front doors.
“This place is spooky,” the driver said slowly, glancing up at the mansion's cracked stone walls.
The taxi meter read $63.75, and Danny reached into his pocket for the money.
“I can't leave a kid alone in a place like this. I'd get arrested,” said the cabbie. “I'll wait.”
“But I don't have enough money for that,” Danny said.
“That's all right,” said the driver. “I think the story will be payment enough. Wait till I tell the guys down at the depot about this!”
“Who are you meeting here anyway?” the cabbie asked.
“Um, my grandfather,” Danny lied. He opened the taxi door, grabbed his bag of hot dogs, and walked slowly toward the front of the mansion.
Just the thought of what Mr. Sycamore might look like at night made Danny shudder. What if he was angry? What if he was really angry? What if he was eye-rattlingly, cane-shakingly furious?
Danny hadn't exactly thought through how he would sneak back into the secret round room and grab the Kosmic Kranberry, or what he would say to Mr. Sycamore. His heart was pounding.
Slowly, he reached up for one of the door's heavy iron knockers.
“Maybe I should just go home,” Danny thought as his fingers grasped the cold metal handle. No sooner had he touched it than the enormous door swung back with a terrifying creak, and a thin voice hissed out at him from the darkness.
“I've been expecting you,” it said.
The Inner Sanctum
“Come in! Come in!” said Mr. Sycamore, pulling Danny into the grand front hallway and slamming the door closed behind him. He flipped a light switch on the wall.
“B-but …,” Danny stuttered, his eyes adjusting to the dim glow of the chandelier. “How did you know I was out there?”
“Oh, I heard the car,” the old man said quickly, leaning on his wooden cane and fixing his good eye on Danny's face. “And as I said, I figured you'd be back at some point.”
Mr. Sycamore's other eye darted up to the oil painting of Manchester Boddlebrooks that hung on the wall behind Danny's head, then shot down to the bag of hot dogs in his visitor's hands.
“Oh, good, you brought something to eat,” Mr. Sycamore said. “I'm famished.”
Danny looked around the room. It seemed to have been dusted and polished since he was last there, and there was a sign sitting on the table in front of the wide double door:
BODDLEBROOKS MANSION UNDER RENOVATION.
GRAND REOPENING SOON!
PLEASE BEAR WITH US.
“We're fixing up everything, right down to the wooden bench in Benchwarmer Banana,” Mr. Sycamore explained when he saw that Danny was staring at the notice. “You've made an old man very happy. You and that wonderful Mr. Frompovich.”
Danny couldn't believe it. The mayor had actually come through!
Mr. Sycamore turned quickly toward the other end of the hall, his cane thudding on the floor as he walked. When he reached the double door, he spun around. Danny was still standing by the front door, frozen on the spot.
“Well, aren't you coming?” Mr. Sycamore said impatiently. “The game starts in twenty minutes!”
The old man led the way down the corridor, and Danny walked slowly after him, amazed at what a little wax and a fresh coat of paint could do.
Mr. Sycamore opened the door to a warm, cozy room that Danny was sure he hadn't seen on his first visit to the house. Half the room was set up as a bedroom, with a single four-poster bed and two bedside tables covered in old black-and-white photographs.
At the other end of the room was a Persian carpet. There was a watermelon red sofa and a small coffee table on one side, and a large old-fashioned television on the other, which emitted a hissing noise and a scratchy black-and-white image. Danny was surprised it was working at all.
“These are my living quarters,” Mr. Sycamore said. “What do you think?”
“Nice,” said Danny.
“I can't be jumping around from bedroom to bedroom like Manchester used to do,” he chuckled.
Danny grinned nervously.
“Sit down, sit down,” the old man said. “We've got a lot to discuss before the game.”
The game!
There were just minutes left until the first pitch and Danny still didn't have any Kosmic Kranberry. There was no time for tricks. He'd have to come clean and hope maybe the old man would let him have just one more stick. He was a Sluggers fan, after all, and once he realized what powers the gum had, he'd have to agree.
“Uh, about the game, Mr. Sycamore,” Danny said slowly. “The last time I was here, I um, well, I found something …”
Mr. Sycamore stare
d at Danny but didn't say a word.
“… in the study …,” Danny continued.
He was so nervous his hands were shaking, but he went on.
“It was something … amazing. Something … extraordinary,” Danny said. “It was …”
“Really horrible-tasting gum?” Mr. Sycamore said, his milky eye darting around the room like a firefly.
Danny's jaw dropped.
“You mean you know about the gum?” Danny said.
“Well, of course I know about the gum,” Sycamore replied. “And I also knew you would take some.”
“You knew?” Danny asked.
“I had an idea you'd try the second you and your friends showed up here,” Mr. Sycamore chuckled. “And then of course I saw you through the keyhole.”
Danny felt his face redden.
“You saw me!” he said. “How come you didn't say anything?”
“It's not every day you come across a Sluggers fan who still has hope after 108 years of losing,” Sycamore said. “That gum has been waiting for someone like you to find it for a very long time. I figured I shouldn't stand in the way.”
“But, Mr. Sycamore,” Danny said. “I don't understand.”
The black-and-white television over Seymour Sycamore's shoulder crackled softly with the Sluggers pregame show, but the old man seemed unaware of it. He sat down on the red couch and gestured for Danny to join him.
“I guess I ought to start at the beginning,” he said.
The Story of Seymour Sycamore
Even after he became a fantastically rich man, Manchester Boddlebrooks liked to wander down from his gleam ing red mansion to watch the children play baseball in West Rock Park.
A man of such vast wealth walked slowly in those days, to make clear that he was never in a hurry. Manchester carried a cane, just for effect, and he had already started wearing the dazzling white suits for which he would later be famous. He put on weight in a manner considered compulsory for a man of his financial stature, though he had not yet reached the giant girth of his later years.
On sunny Saturday mornings, the bubble-gum tycoon would take a seat on a park bench behind the baseball diamond, unfurl his newspaper, and reminisce about his days as a groundskeeper.
